


Mascara Tears

by ChuckTingle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckTingle/pseuds/ChuckTingle
Summary: "He drinks and mistakes me for Mom. Only once in a while. Not like it's a big deal... Watch the fucking look on your face. A Gallagher looking down on me? I don't think so."





	Mascara Tears

**Author's Note:**

> she deserves better than this shit

At the Milkovich household, times never changed.

Sometimes, Mickey seemed different when he came home, like something had happened that had rattled him to the core. Again, yet it never felt normal. Someone killed? Sure. Witnessed a gang fight? Likely. Jamie? Joey? Iggy? Lord only knew what went on with them when she wasn’t around. Violence was their one skill, but she knew that they had her back if that happened to be what she needed. They’d all taught her to protect herself, and Mandy knew better than anyone what that meant in this neighborhood. 

She could hold her own, and even plenty of the boys in town knew not to fuck with her. The name Milkovich struck fear into the veins of a large chunk of the south side population, so what did any of them truly have to worry? Mandy glanced at the coffee table next to her and attempted to count the amount of pistols vs. semi-automatics. Twelve and three? She wasn’t quite sure. It looked like there might be an AK buried under a couple of those glocks. And the crack pipe. Why, then, did she always feel so scared? She laughed off the thought and took another drag of her cigarette, attempting to watch whatever boring drivel was on the television at that particular time.

No one was home, and when that was the case the place could be terribly boring. Somehow, Mandy didn’t mind a bit. A boring, uneventful Milkovich household was better than one where dad was beating Joey to a pulp, or someone was bashing down the door looking for one of her brothers who owed them money. With only the soft hum of the television turned down low to accompany her, Mandy was at peace. Ian wasn’t around, but if he were, she wouldn’t have minded his company either, she supposed. Damn shame that kid was gay, honestly.

He was her best friend. Sometimes, she wished he could be more.

She shook her head and took another drag, relishing it and watching as the smoke dissipated into the air around her. It wasn’t worth thinking about that. She’d already tried with Ian, and now that she knew the truth, she was perfectly content being his beard. He was a close friend and protector she hadn’t had before. If anything, it was a blessing he wasn’t fucking her like most of the men in her life. When had that ever ended well for her? She shrugged. 

Hadn’t stopped her yet.

Bored, sure, but empty. That’s how she felt on this cold winter afternoon. By some miracle, they’d managed to pay the gas bill on time, so the room was warm and cozy. Another drag. Another cloud of thick, billowing smoke. The people on the television babbled away. The Bachelor, Mandy thought, given the dramatic music and crying woman in front of her. She had never been much of a fan. Why waste all your energy trying to court one guy, when they all just want your body in the end? The woman’s tears continued to flow, and Mandy basked in her ignorance. This lady knew _nothing_ ; this heartbreak would destroy her life. Girls like Mandy Milcovich could not afford to let that happen.

If she let every broken heart tear her to pieces, there would be nothing left of her at all. A certain Lip Gallagher was coming a little too dangerously close to warming that heart of hers more than she would like. Love was a fallacy, and she knew it-- so why did she love him?

Sirens echoed outside. Voices yelling. She braced herself for gunshots, but none came. Just angry insults, a few thrown fists. The fight dissipated. Typical South Side. She stared at The Bachelor, an empty reality TV show that seemed to shine a light on just how bad she had it. These women? They were beautiful, rich, and could really make a life for themselves… why, then, did they put everything into winning one stupid game show?

As much as she detested them, Mandy realized she couldn’t judge. If she were in the position, if she’d _just_ been able to make a bit of money… she would jump on the opportunity in a heartbeat. To be some rich man’s one and only was an unthinkable, unattainable dream for someone like her.

She was no trophy wife. She was a used up, useless, excuse for a girl. A spent whore. If she was being honest with herself, she couldn’t even remember the names of some of the guys she’d fucked. What was the point? When every man was a shit stain, what point was there in looking for something better? A man that would fuck her, forget her, and never talk to her again, was ideal. But what if she were beautiful and rich enough to find someone genuine? Someone who wouldn’t treat her like she was a piece of meat? A hole to be fucked?

Even the thought of it made her laugh. Other than Lip, there weren’t guys like that in the South Side… or if there were, they were gay. She was sure of it. Finding Lip had been her lucky break, and she already felt like she was managing to fuck it up.

More yelling outside. This time, the voices were familiar. Her neighbor, a man named John Handler, and her father… Terry Milcovich. She puffed her cigarette again, and again, as they argued. A dispute over drugs, or so it seemed. Terry swore he would get John the money by Monday. John said, “Oh you’d better, or it’s over for those stupid fucking kids of yours.”

Mandy laughed. John, ending her? She could put glass shards in his coffee and he’d be done for, simple as that. The idea of being killed by someone like him… it was a strange one. On one hand, she was a strong woman, capable of fighting her own battles. On the other, she was just playing the hand she was dealt. If someone was hostile, she’d beg, she’d plead. She’d slowly strip. Get them wanting her.

She _knew_ that anyone would want her. He’d fuck her before he killed her. That was a guarantee she knew she could rely on. She just wished, oh so desperately wished, to be able to rely on something else.

The front door slammed open and Terry Milcovich stormed in, yelling into the night, “Fuck off, John! My kids’ll rip your guts out!”

He slammed the door in John’s face, muttering angrily under his breath. Mandy watched him, carefully, with eyes wide with suspicion. Her father was a loose cannon, to say the least, and even more so when he was drunk. That vacant look in his eyes. The sheer raggedness of his movements, his slurred speech. Clearly, he’d hit a few bars tonight before his altercation with John. More than a few, actually. He cursed as he stumbled over his own feet, essentially falling into the kitchen where he fished a Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the refrigerator. Mandy didn’t turn in his direction. From her experience, she’d determined her father had three levels of drunk.

Level One: tipsy. Tipsy Terry was a walk in the park. If she played her cards right, she could get him out of her hair with nearly no effort at all. Tell him Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing at the park, or that Henry from three blocks down had tried to take out one of her brothers. There were just certain things that he would view as important enough to leave her alone. An easy out. Nothing fancy.

Level Two: drunk. At this point, Terry grew unpredictable, and started to feel like shit for some reasons he assumed Mandy simply couldn’t understand. She’d try to talk to him, and he’d shut her down. _Little girls don’t get it,_ he’d insist, but she was seventeen for God’s sake. He had no idea what she’d been through. _Go make yourself useful somewhere else,_ he would slur, gesturing for the door. And she would. Oh she would. Plenty of men found her useful on nights like those, but did she feel okay? What defined “okay” really?

When she’d been alone, smoking her cigarette and wallowing in jealousy of those stupid, rich, beautiful, bachelorettes, she’d almost felt okay. Her father stumbled drunkenly into the living room, humming a strange tune she didn’t recognize as though he were far too happy for her to feel safe. She shuddered at the sound of his rhythmic footsteps on the cheap, linoleum floor of their kitchen. _This_ didn’t feel okay. No one else was home. Not Iggy. Not even Mickey. No one. Her breath hitched, but she inhaled nonetheless. Mandy knew how to always keep breathing. No matter what, she reminded herself, Don’t stop breathing.

“Fuckin’ guy,” Terry mumbled, cracking open the beer and guzzling it down, “Thinks he can come in here and threaten my family.”

Mandy knew better than to try and join the conversation. Things hadn’t always been peachy between her and her father. When he was verifiably Level Three drunk, like he was now, she didn’t dare get involved with the conversation. She knew what happened. She tried not to think about it. She denied it. But she knew.

“Hey you,” Terry waltzed into the living room and gestured his beer in her direction, “What’s a fine thing like you doing here at this hour?”

“It’s seven P.M.” Mandy muttered, brushing her hair out of her face, “And I live here. _Dad._ ”

Terry chuckled and spun around in a circle, nearly stumbling over with the effort of the motion. Mandy’s drew breath through her teeth. He leaned over the side of the couch and eyed her skeptically, clicking his tongue.

“Oh, Jeannie… you know I love it when you call me that.”

“No, _father_ ,” Mandy insisted, scooting as far away from him as she could with her back still toward him, “It’s me, Mandy. Mom’s gone. She’s been gone for years.”

A silence overcame the room, and Mandy didn’t dare move. Terry’s eyes were dark and glazed over. Had he even heard her? He stared through her, not at her. Through her to something else, something that he had invented in his mind, but now desired more than anything. A wave of dread crept up on her as her father slowly came around and sat on the sofa next to her, leaning in so close she could feel the warmth of his alcoholic breath. She cringed, taking deep and controlled breaths, and dug her chewed fingernails into the couch pillow she clutched to her chest.

“But you look so beautiful tonight…”

“Dad, you’re drunk,” Mandy nearly laughed, smiling out of sheer disbelief. This couldn’t be happening again. This wasn’t normal. How could this possibly be normal? Terry hummed, intrigued now by the idea of her, and dragged his index finger down the strap of her tank top. The gesture sent shivers down her back and left the skin where he’d touched tingling.

“Tch, I’ve only had a few,” Terry lied, letting his rough hand linger on her shoulder, “It’s been so long, Jean. Just once? For old times sake?”

Tears flowed from Mandy’s eyes, now, but she blinked them away, shaking. She wondered if he noticed, or if the clouded fog of alcohol he would eventually emerge angrily from made him see past the reality of her distress. In front of Terry Milcovich right now was a young Jean Hutchinson, mother of his children, and the best he’s ever had-- not his scared, teenage daughter with her shaky breath and mascara tears. 

She must really look like her mother.

“Dad, please,” Mandy begged, squeezing her eyes shut when she felt the press of his wet lips on the back of her neck. She weakly tried to push him away, but she knew better than to fight too hard. Even sober, Terry could pack a punch if something got in his way, “I’m not mom.”

He smelled her hairline where it met the nape of her neck.

“I’m not mom!” 

A dirty hand reached around and fondled her right breast. She shuddered and sobbed.

“God damn it, dad! She’s _gone!_ She left you.”

Terry froze, and so too did she. Her heart beat through her tightening chest and she found it harder and harder to breathe, but a Milcovich child would always persevere. Tenderly, _too_ tenderly, Terry pulled her shoulder towards him, turning her so that she faced him. Her watering eyes met his cold, dull, and heartless ones, and in that moment, she realized there was no getting through to him. It didn’t surprise her. She’d seen that look before.

“She left you,” Mandy repeated through a choked sob, "And then you killed her."

Mandy tried to force herself to smile, but Terry knocked it right off her face, “No one killed _anyone!_ ”

She gasped, clutching her jaw where he’d struck her and closing her eyes tight. Pain was nothing new to her, but this blow hit her harder than ever. It was true, and she knew it-- she left him in the dust, and in a fit of rage he'd extinguished his old flame. Terry just didn’t want to hear it. He never wanted to hear it.

“I didn’t wanna have to do this, love, but you’re leavin’ me no choice” Terry’s voice dropped to a low, threatening growl and he grabbed at her breasts again, harder this time, “Just relax. You’ll remember, right, Jeannie? How good I make you feel?”

Mandy felt her chest rise and fall beneath his heavy hands and she whined plaintively, sinking under the pressure of his desire. Terry shifted now, pushing her down onto the couch and straddling her, then pulling her shirt up to her neck. Her eyes were closed now, because to look up at him was far too much for her. To accept this as a part of her reality, not once, not twice, but as many times as he got wasted, was to accept that she really, truly, was nothing more than a hopeless, helpless, whore.

Lip Gallagher’s words from the night they first fucked rang in her ears.

_“I bet you could get any guy into bed, huh?”_

_“Yeah. Why?”_

It was no blessing. Tonight, she was sure it was a curse.

“You’re so beautiful tonight...”

She tried to hear any voice but his as he unbuttoned her pants. Slid them off with no hesitation. There was no struggle. No use in fighting. Terry was a Ukrainian gangster, and Mandy didn’t feel like she deserved any better. After all, in this neighborhood, what else had she ever known? Her breath echoed in her own ears and she focused on it. Inhale. Exhale.

He shoved his length inside her. Shakier breaths now. Inhale. Exhale. She’s crying again.

“I missed you so much…”

The tears… were they even just hers now? Against her better judgment, Mandy couldn’t help but look above her. Terry’s eyes were shut too, and around the very corners of them, tears were actually beginning to pool, and some had dripped onto her naked chest. Regretting opening her eyes, Mandy saw grief in the sick face above her. She saw a man who missed the love of his life. A man who’d many mistakes, was making one now, and would make many, many, more. Terry Milcovich was a man who just wanted to believe he was finally making love again to a woman who had scorned him long ago.

There wasn’t enough liquor in the world to fill the void in his heart, but it could help. Raping his daughter could help. After all, he never remembered in the morning.

When he thrusted into her that night, she _knew_ she would remember. She remembered every time, and closing her eyes never helped. It hurt, she cried, and she still felt his hands on her chest. He cried too, and his tears were hundred proof. Mandy wished he wouldn’t cry-- he never cried, and those few drops from his deep well of untapped sadness burned her skin like whiskey down her throat. Time seemed to stand still, and her heart was soon to burst; would it ever end, and if it did, what happened then?

After all, she knew damn well it would happen again.

“I’m so close,” Terry grunted, digging his fingers into Mandy’s shoulder.

“P- Pull out,” Mandy gasped and clutched at the couch cushions, gasping for breath as he hunched over and pounded into her harder, “Dad! _T- Terry,_ pull out, I’m not--”

Too little too late. He moaned and emptied his load inside her, and for a moment, she felt completely empty herself. Dried tears stuck to her face. Her breasts were sore. She hurt all over. Worst of all, she felt every drop of his cum inside her. She didn’t have the money for the pill these days. The best she could really do was hope. Terry groaned and stood up, pulling up his pants and smiling triumphantly, no sign of having been crying at all. Mandy wished she could say the same, but her makeup was thoroughly ruined.

“Oh Jeannie,” Terry mumbled, wandering off towards his room, “You sure know how to take it.”

Without another word, he was in his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Unsure why she should even bother getting up, Mandy lay back on the couch, still splayed where he’d left her, breasts exposed and pants pulled down to her knees. As much as she would have liked to lie there and decay, she didn’t have that privilege. Her brothers would be home soon, and she couldn’t have them seeing this. She had a feeling Mickey knew what their father did to her, but he had enough to deal with these days. This was her problem. It always had been.

It always would be.

She stood herself up, fixed her shirt, and zipped up her shorts. Taking a quick breath, she pushed her messy hair out of her eyes and stumbled to the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and met herself in the mirror. There was something so nostalgic about the way her makeup smeared around her eyes, like she was being taken back to the first time she’d cried during sex. Had she been fourteen when somebody hurt her? Fifteen? Who knew? It was no different now, at the heart of it all. Just another man using her to get what he wanted.

Just another sick, twisted fuck-- this one just happened to share her DNA. 

It was no big deal, really. She’d tell anyone that, if they asked. It just happened sometimes.

Sighing, Mandy placed a hand gently over her lower abdomen, staring at her disheveled reflection. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes. She looked down at her belly, then back up at herself. It was almost painful-- she really did look like her mother. Mandy missed her too. She couldn’t help but wonder, studying her pitiful reflection, how many times Terry had made her mother cry, back in the day. It made sense that she would end up like this.

Mandy, like her mother, was used to being used; unlike her mother, she was still alive to deal with it. Like her mother, Mandy cried in the bathroom, letting her wet makeup run down her face. Unlike her mother, Mandy knew she would never have the courage to run. In the end, she had always known her place.


End file.
